


Sometime Around Midnight

by RavenZaiyo



Series: Z's Witcher Oneshots [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Song: Sometime Around Midnight, after the arguement on the moutain, geralt sees jaskier move on, heavily implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25102558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenZaiyo/pseuds/RavenZaiyo
Summary: Feelings are a burden. Geralt is trying to drink the burden away when Jaskier himself stirs those feelings just to return the hurt he was given up on the mountain.Geralt can only slowly fall apart.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Series: Z's Witcher Oneshots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818043
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	Sometime Around Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> I've written two shitposts for the fandom, I'm currently working on a longer, more visceral fic, and so I had a couple songs I needed to write oneshots for. This is one. 
> 
> Honestly, though? This could easily be a late sequel to A New Wager. I'll let you fill in the gaps lol

Coming to Oxenfurt was a mistake.

Geralt had been some semblance of fine, head swimming in too much wine. Why wine? Because it tasted like _him_ and until this moment he had needed the reminder of what that felt like.

It was sometime around midnight. The lady bard playing some stupid carefree song was nothing like _him_ , and part of that was a comfort. He tried to listen, follow the song, as she crooned about forgetting yourself for a while.

But as long as Geralt tried in vain not to look at him, his eyes unerringly returned to their home. The lilting notes the lady played felt like they could just as easily emanate from his smile, tinged in a hint of sadness.

He made a simple doublet, unlaced slightly, scandalously, look ornate. Geralt had seen it before. On the floor next to his bed. It felt like so long ago, but time never touched him. His Jaskier.

Geralt knew Jaskier knew he was watching, a game of two sets of eyes that played at meeting but didn't. It was in the way he moved, the way he laughed. Dancing, spinning, carousing. Holding his cup with white knuckles. His smile looked genuine, captivating, but Geralt saw the strain, saw how it didn't reach those icy eyes.

The floor swayed beneath him as Jaskier walked up and asked how he was. And all at once, the smell of the man, which he'd held at bay till now, invaded him, washing over and plowing through him. Something floral and gentle and strong in his natural musk.

He can feel the ghost of lute-hardened fingertips, the feel of his breath, the sound of his voice. Memories rush him like monsters he can't fight off. He's trapped in the fog of bitter emotions, of buried want. He can't avoid the tide, buried in the mire of his mistakes.

He can't speak, for fear of breaking under the weight of his former words. Jaskier must know, must sense Geralt's turmoil, because he turned and walked away, and the shape of his body might as well have been bare to him because Geralt could feel him, taste him just like that one night where they fit perfectly together. A creature conjoined in wordless passion and unspoken promises.

Geralt finally turned away, his head swimming, his jaw clenched. He felt unmoored, adrift in the thickening haze of the wine. This was a battle he had no idea how to fight. He was absolutely helpless in the throes of this feeling. The taste of the wine, of the man it reminded him of, went bitter in his mouth.

And just as he'd told himself Jaskier was where his eyes would always be drawn to, his home, he found himself bereft and alone. Without a home or the dignity of having one.

Jaskier left on the arm of a strange man. He made eye contact with Geralt first, made sure he saw the cruel and salacious grin on him before he rushed his new friend out the door.

Geralt felt himself go too hot, then too cold. He felt like he'd been slapped, but nothing physical had ever hurt this much. His blood thickened as he felt like steam could erupt from him in some semblance of comedy. His stomach turned, the thought of someone else putting their hands on the man he _fucking loved._

There it was. Realization, and the dawning summit of how seriously he'd fucked everything up because he'd displaced his feelings. He'd chased Yennefer, distracted himself, because he didn't know what this was. Didn't know how to acknowledge it.

And ultimately, when he couldn't run anymore, when he thought he couldn't fuck up any more, he'd pushed Jaskier as far away as he could.

It hadn't worked. Even though he and Yennefer were connected eternally by that damn djinn, there was no connection to blame for how he ached for Jaskier. Nothing there to blame but his traitor head and heart.

He felt himself down the last of the wine, snarl through the taste, and set the glass down before he could smash it in his hand which, while sluggish, would not obey his brain.

The bartender must have been brave. "Look like ye've seen a ghost."

Geralt gnashed his teeth and resisted the urge to throw something, and pushed off the bar hard enough to send himself stumbling toward the door. He knocked someone aside, and when they went to tell him to be careful, he glared at them with the full effect of the hatred he turned on himself.

He damn-near threw the door from the hinges. Plodding like a lame horse beneath the dim street lanterns. He was too wasted to see the looks of late night passersby. He didn't fucking care how disheveled he was, the world was no longer swaying beneath him but crumbling. He wished it would hurry up and swallow him whole, or even chew him up for good measure.

He tried to follow Jaskier's scent. What would he do? Plead? Say words he didn't know how to put together and hope he would understand?

_He always understood._

Geralt scratched at his face, leaving red welts in his pale skin, as if that would push the liquid back into his eyes.

Single track mind, one foot in front of the other, the reek of wine pouring off him, and all he could think was how he _had_ to see him. Just _had_ to.

Geralt realized it was a lost cause as the world began to turn too quickly for his footing. He fell against a street lantern, and threw up violently. He sunk down it with his back to it. He just had to rest for a moment.

Over the stench of bile, he could catch a note of floral and…

Back onto his feet. He would crawl if he had to.

Soft noises, smell of sweat.

Geralt wanted to die.

Against a wall blanketed in ivy, Jaskier's doublet was fully open to the chill of the air, his chest heaving, perfect mouth billowing white clouds of breath into the air. His lover was making no secret in what he was doing to him, on his knees with one of Jaskier's hands in his hair.

Once again, Geralt met those eyes, but now there was something else in Jaskier's stare.

Pity.

Geralt felt numb, but that was welcome. He let his legs carry him away as quietly as they could. He felt sober now, and he wondered what he had possibly hoped to achieve.

All the hopes and prayers in the world wouldn't take back what he'd said. Nor would it take back the shattering he felt upon his body, or the center of him to which everything seemed to crumple into.

Above all, he wished it were true, that Witchers felt nothing. Even nothing would be better than his hubris. The memory of lips against his neck, a soft whisper of his name, the way Geralt had once rendered him wordless and inarticulate.

And now, those memories would be accompanied by pitying eyes.

He hoped that his drunken mind would have mercy on him, so he could forget everything.

He should have known better. Destiny was a cruel bitch, and Mercy her absent lover.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this entirely during a car ride home. Hope it was coherent.


End file.
